A Living Dead Love Story Series (66 page)

Like one smells sweaty, one angry, one dirty, and one foul. Each uniquely and grossly fragrant. Each with a personality. The closer the smells get, the more distinctive each is.

“Stamp,” I hiss as the sign for Seagull Shores shows eight miles. “Stamp.”

I stop. He keeps walking. I'll catch up if he doesn't notice soon enough.

I hear footsteps, different from Stamp's. Smaller, faster, closer.

“Stamp!”

The wind is coming from behind me. Not a breeze, exactly, but moving air just the same. And the smells are changing. The five smells shift to four, then three. Then, suddenly, the smells are replaced by sounds. First comes the dry grass rustling underfoot to my right—no, my left. A twig snapping over there—no, over there.

And then stronger sounds. The first howl is a soft, low keen. I can tell Stamp doesn't hear it because he doesn't flinch the way I do. He's too far away to talk to now, not even looking back at me anymore. Not even worried about me.

I pause and reach into my scrubs, unwinding the drawstring from my waistband around the Eliminator. But I never finished my training and, even then, I fought rubber dummies who didn't move and never fought back and didn't have teeth or smell like boiling, rancid bat pee.

I drop the silent treatment and flat-out scream, “Stamp!”

Finally he turns. He looks down at his side, as if he knows I'll be there, and then he gets this look on his face when he can't find me. It's not a concerned look, exactly. Just impatient. And when he turns to find out where I really am—twelve paces behind his giant praying mantis legs—he just shakes his head and holds his hands up in a
Really?
gesture.

“Stamp, I—”

The growl is loud and near, but still I see nothing. It's like something you'd hear on a nature channel with the sound turned low in the background.

We're in scrub brush and tall, dry grass. Nothing towering like in
Children of the Corn
or anything but enough to hide a stray dog looking to sneak up and tear your calf muscle out before you can stick a handy ice pick in his ear.

I was hoping to make it to town before they attacked. Hoping that, if there were cars and
surfers
and some bad cover band singing Jimmy Buffet songs on the back porch of some raw bar, the dogs would give up and we'd be safe. But I guess they're not going to patiently wait for us to walk those last six or seven miles into town after all.

Stamp turns, waving me to him. There's a football-field-sized patch of sand and scrub between us.

I frown. Let him and his cricket legs do it. So I wave him back.

He waves harder.

I wave faster.

We could do this all day, but finally he takes a step toward me just as a blur flits across the field in front of us. Black fur, with flashes of white mixed in. I see four legs, furry paws, wide eyes, and white teeth.

Stamp freezes.

I press both buttons on the Eliminator, just in case.

The smells are mingling now, hot and wet and rich.

Something steps on a dry twig behind me.

I jerk, Eliminator raised in my right hand, ready to do what it does best. I pivot, just for a moment, to see nothing but waving grass behind me. I watch it, waiting, listening.

I hear a yip to my right. Not a playful yip. Not at all. And not designed for me to hear but for someone to follow: a signal. And just like that, three dogs creep from the tall grass. One stands directly in front of me, one to my left, and one to my right.

With everything at my disposal—zombie
vision
, double the smell, and nothing but the sound of my own footsteps to distract me—still they crept up on me like a squirrel in a full-on nut-gathering frenzy.

T
he dogs are
snarly and foul. God, they stink. Like it hasn't rained in weeks and they've been writhing in each other's waste the whole time.

They are a motley group of mutts and feral dogs, a scabby and toothy pack on the hunt. That's what this is. There's no mistaking it. A hunt. The one directly in front of me is a German shepherd, big and bad with greasy fur and ribs showing and giant paws and eyes that never look away from my throat. His tongue lolls to one side, and his low growl is the kind you feel more than hear.

To my left: a terrier of some kind, black fur and brown paws and ears. Mouth open, jagged white teeth, sniffing with a moist snout.

To my right: a bony mutt that can't stop panting.

I crouch, as Vera taught me, but I know it's useless if they go all pack mentality and rush me. One at a time is okay. Maybe two if I'm quick enough. But three?

From behind, in the distance, I hear another yelp, followed by a low growl. I want to turn and see what Stamp is doing, but I know the minute I do, I'm toast. As it is, the German shepherd is stealing forward, the slimy snout rippling above his teeth as the growl gets louder. The two stray dogs on either side of him follow suit.

Screw it. I'm not waiting for them. Behind me the yelping gets louder, and I realize it's Stamp growling, not some stray dog. I leap at the German shepherd, startling it momentarily but not for long. I bring the ice pick down hard and fast but miss his ear and jam it in his shoulder instead.

He's no dummy. Literally, this dog is no CPR dummy. He yelps, in real pain, squirming and squealing, and I try to yank the Eliminator out of his tough hide, but the dog blitzes out of range, taking my weapon with him and leaving me standing there, defenseless.

Well, not exactly. I'm reaching for Vera's pen when the terrier leaps. It's blinding fast, and I'm strong but slow. I manage to pound its flat, bony head with my fist, and he yelps as I kick out, launching him five or six feet away.

The third dog tears into my scrubs, slashing at my thigh with his rabid (probably) teeth as I reach down and break his neck with my icy grip. He yips once, wiry and foul in my hand, then goes limp against my leg, sliding down the rip he made seconds ago.

The terrier comes charging, a blinding black bullet, and I jerk left just in time to see it zip past, landing in the dirt and spinning around to blitz me again.

He never gets the chance. I turn, crouching when he darts at me.

Even faster is Stamp, lunging for him, catching him in both hands and twisting his furry little body like a dish towel you'd ring out over the sink.

No time for a yowl, just a snap and a twist, and Stamp throws him to the ground at his feet, standing tall, teeth bared, dripping fists at his side.

“Jesus,” I say again, cringing from the look of pure rage in Stamp's eyes. I'm half expecting him to come and wring me out like a towel as well.

I look beyond him to the carnage: two dogs lying broken and bloody in the vacant field, their heads torn—no, cracked—open. He stands above me, still and silent, eyes filled with rage, chin slick with fresh blood.

I hear growling and turn to find the German shepherd standing his ground, listing a little to the side where the Eliminator sticks out of his shoulder, blood dripping from the wound.

God help me, I have to say it smells
delicious
. I inch forward, and the wounded stray winces, taking a step back, limping.

Behind me Stamp walks forward, and I yank him back. He turns, mouth open, and now, up close, I notice for the first time the gore wedged between his teeth.

“Stop!”

He shakes his head, turns away from me. “You do it then!”

I hear crunching behind me and find Stamp, well, you don't want to know what he's doing to the wrung-out dog. When I turn back to the German shepherd, he is limping away into the brush. I look down to see a big puddle of blood where he stood, too much to recover from.

I follow him at a distance, giving him his space. I ignore the crunching sounds of Stamp feeding behind me. Walking along, quietly, slowly, I think about life and death, the strong and the weak, animals and humans, and what I've become.

I asked Dad once, about what happens to an
animal
when a zombie bites it. Does it reanimate? He thought about it for a moment, then smiled: “Not if you consume the brain, which is the only reason I can think for a zombie to bite an animal.”

From the sound of what's going on behind me, there won't be much dog left to reanimate when Stamp gets done with it. And I wonder if he'd even think to save any for me.

I hear panting and, a few seconds later, the sound of a body slumping to the ground.

It's approaching now, close at hand. I can smell the fear and the weakness and the coming nothingness in the air. It's stronger than the dog's sweat and funk, stronger even than the fresh blood trail I've been following so eagerly.

I sit down a few feet away and watch the dog take its final few breaths. They are ragged and unpleasant and far from peaceful, the way I've been taught that dogs die from after-school specials and morning cartoons. But then, so little of what I've been taught holds true anymore.

I gasp when at last the life goes out, leaving the dog's body long and limp and flat, like a duffel bag after you've taken everything out and shoved it in your hotel room drawers. It's so final and fast, as if a string has been cut, letting out all the slack and, poof, instant dog carcass.

I rise and look behind me, finding Stamp standing still, gore on his chin, looking for me. I sigh and reach over, yanking the Eliminator from the dog's shoulder. Then I turn it, scalpel side down, and do what needs to be done.

I
feel better
having fed. What's more, I feel better having fed myself, if that makes any sense. I've been in Sentinel City too long to remember what it was like to snag brains on the fly, to take care of myself without attracting attention. I've been fed and clothed and sheltered and trained and
zombie
coddled, and now I'm Vanished.

So I guess I better get used to it.

I tuck my chin as we walk. The sky is dark now, or mostly so. A thin orange line sizzles along the
horizon
. Fiery red glows like a racing stripe across the distance. I've missed the sky. I've missed the sand and the sea to one side. But now that I'm here, I find I can't enjoy any of it.

“Buck up,” I grunt to myself as Stamp scratches his ear. I've done this. We've done this before. In Orlando, we all passed every day. Driving to work, earning money, renting an apartment, living in the open, finding our own brain source, making do when we had to. And we did have to.

But it was easier then. We had clothes and money and a car and licenses and identities. Now I know why the Sentinels call it being Vanished, not banished.

Banished is just a mindset. You don't belong anymore. Big deal.

Being Vanished is the real deal. We are basically naked, like prehistoric savages in a distinctly modern world. We have no identity, no paperwork, no Social Security numbers, no drivers' licenses or voter registration cards, no photo IDs. All of that was taken from us when we entered Sentinel City, and at the time I didn't think twice. I handed it over gladly, in fact, figuring we'd never need it again.

Now I know why Vera didn't explain it better when I asked her point-blank about it. Why she didn't foreshadow what was
really
to come. If she had, I would have fought harder, maybe too hard, and wound up worse than Vanished.

I look at a sign near the road:

You're not going to believe this, but there are seagulls all over it. I know, weird—and original and not expected or predictable at all.

Stamp comes to a stop next to me, like a dog trained to heel. He's happy now, having fed—a lot. I mean, he's fed so much he's almost dopey. Brain drunk, Dane used to call it.

“What?” Stamp says, but he doesn't snap at me like before. He's mellow.

“This town . . .” I point to the sign, wooden and purposefully distressed and brown with white lettering and blue seagulls flying all over the place as if it was placed here in 1972 and, like a zombie, never aged a single day since. “What do you think?”

He makes a frowny face like he's really thinking, but I can tell in his eyes he's just making it look like he is so I'll be impressed. “I think I'm tired of walking.”

“So we'll stop here?”

He shrugs.

I nod and walk on.

This time he's the one who grabs my sleeve and yanks me back.

“We should wait.” He nods at his own suggestion, as if maybe that will make me nod too. He's still looking at the sign, his feet firmly planted by the side of the road.

“Wait? Why wait?” I look around. The sun is done setting, the street lights are flickering on one by one, and it must be a weeknight because the place is dead.

Barracuda Bay was the same way. Dad used to say they rolled the sidewalks up at 9:00 sharp every night.